They once were a proud people, a people who prided themselves on their heritage and abilities as well as their strength to govern the lands for generations. Thirty years ago something tipped the balance of power; entire tribes were wiped out of existence in the name of the human liberation. Thirty years ago their way of live was disrupted and turned upside down. His family had been slain, save for a few of his cousins, one of which he thought of as a sister but surely she was dead by now! Thirty years ago he had just barely become an adult; in the eyes of those before him, he was still quite young to have been elected the leader in a time of crisis. Many had taken it as an omen after the previous leader had been killed, when he had been chosen to lead them all…And he had failed in his task. Only three remained of his tribe, not counting himself. 

Now he was confined to a small cage by the guard’s quarters, where he was guarded by one day and night. They threatened him with injections of Lycium, the horrible ‘[i]antidote[/i]’ as many had put it. He was not like a human in some ways, true he bled and looked like one, he spoke their language and he had even had his heritage tied in with theirs but there was one large difference; he was what many called a skin-walker, one that could turn into an animal. There have been others like his people but they had faded into history some time ago, long before he had been born. Sadly his people were subjected to a curse, according to their mythology, that kept them tethered to the moon. The moon influenced their cycles of being able to take the skin of a wolf. That had further been regulated by the Lycium, which had robbed them of their full transformations. 

Glaring around the small and dirty cage, he snarled. This was no place for him; this was no place for any of his kind. One of the passing guards kicked the bars of his cage, causing the bars to create an unpleasant noise that hurt his ears. [b]“Shut it you werewolf scum!”[/b] he snapped. [i]Werewolf[/i]…The slur was a common one heard, even long before this turn of power. Isard was powerless; the cage had robbed much of his strength away. 
The guard left a parting gift for Isard—a large blob of saliva sitting close to his feet. 

His home, his cage, was barely big enough to allow him the room to stand. By no means was Isard a small man either. Standing at an even six feet his body showed signs that once, before he was allowed to waste away, he had been well muscled in his chest and arms. Isard’s red-gold hair had gone un-brushed for so long that it grew in mats that fell a little past his shoulders. In the early years his hair would have been kept short and out of the way of the injection site for the Lycium bot no they no longer cared about injecting it into his neck. There was an interesting thing about his eyes and the eyes of all skin-walkers—they were the color of amber. This often carried into their other halves, as there wolf selves were called. One could find many adults with gray, green or brown eyes but never blue. No the blue eye color was reserved to their children and it often faded into the usual amber as they aged into toddlers. Cold amber colored eyes watched the guards as they passed on their rounds, some were heading off for a good rest and others were just beginning their day.

He knew that it was almost time for the guards to change their rounds guarding his cage. Usually there was one guard that was more talkative than the others and he was willing to give him information of the other tribes, the few that had managed to escape although they had been greatly reduced in size. This guard was a simple man and Isard never could recall his name; there were so many damned humans that had come and gone in his thirty years of captivity. It wasn’t that he hated humans entirely, he did for the slaughtering of his family but he wished to be free. Freedom was something that he missed dearly. Being able to walk in the sunlight, to smell the sweet scents of the grass and flowers…and those damned fools overlooked those little pleasures. He had, at one time, been like them, ignorant to the simple things in life and now it was his deepest regret. 

[b]“Hello.”[/b]

The voice snapped Isard out of his thoughts, looking up he could see the familiar silhouette of the man that was his favorite human, although he would never admit it. [b]“I brought you dinner,”[/b] the man said, stepping closer to the cage. “Dinner” usually was a chunk of stale, hard bread and either a slice or two of meat or cheese. Tonight he was lucky; it was meat. The cheese often made him sick. 

[b]”I snuck it out of the kitchens for you, the meat.”[/b] the man said. He appeared to be a teen with the beginnings of a tawny colored beard to match his hair that was a few shades lighter. To Isard, the man’s eyes often looked to be black or possibly brown. 

There was no thank you as Isard tore into the meat. The juices dripped down his hands and, prompting Isard to lick his hands clean before working on the chunk of bread. It was painfully obvious that meat was a luxury that had been denied to him. The man simply turned around with a small smile on his face. [b]“I’m glad you liked it.”[/b] After finishing his small meal, Isard stared at the back of the man’s head. 

[b]”Any word…of my people?”[/b] he asked, licking bread crumbs from his fingers. 

The guard shook his head, [b]”No. Very few sightings happen anymore. Some say that there are no more were—skin walkers,”[/b] he corrected himself. 

Isard nodded and sat against the back bars of his cage. He was nothing more than the neglected pet of the King and Queen and he had grown accustomed to sitting dumbly in his cage until they had use of him. Often he was paraded around to flaunt to guests. It was rare to keep one of the “Alphas”, as the humans called them. It was ridiculous, they thought of them as dogs! The Alphas were generally seen as something that the most powerful kings could have. They were the warriors of thirty years ago that were the most hated after all. 

[b]”What of Alee?”[/b] Isard asked the guard, sitting up a little bit straighter. Perhaps this time they had caught wind of her. 

The man did not know the ties between Isard and this Alee but he knew that he often asked for her. Perhaps she was a lover to the werewolf? The guard shrugged his shoulders, there had been no word of any one captured lately nor had there been anything to suggest that. 

Isard slumped against the bars once more, sighing softly. He was beginning to give up hope on Alee. 

He had remembered their younger years, when they would pay together in the spaces between the great trees of the forest, or when they would lay side by side on a grassy hill and watch the stars in the heavens. Alee had been important to him and in return Isard had been important to her. Thirty years ago they had made a pact with each other—to help each other stay strong. 

Where was she now when he needed her the most?